“This one, sir?” Private Tango held up a dog-eared copy of The Complete Moron’s Guide to Lost Gold of the Americas.
“Exactly. It’s got a whole chapter on Mexico. Whatever we find, we keep. Now settle down, men — we’ll be in Austin in no time.” The General pulled back onto the road, narrowly missing a passing semi with its air horn blaring.
• • •
To: International Astronomical Union
Paris, France
Dear Complaint Department:
Something has annoyed me for quite some time, and I need to get it off my chest. Why in the hell did your organization downgrade Pluto from a planet to a dwarf planet? Dwarf planet? Seriously? I’m very pissed off, and, as the owner of my own astronomical object, which I’m sure you’re aware of, I know a lot about this stuff. I’ve reread your new definition for planets in our solar system several times. Pluto does orbit the sun! Pluto does have significant mass to achieve a round shape! The only thing that could possibly disqualify the poor rocky ice ball is that it doesn’t dominate the neighborhood around its orbit. I understand that its largest moon, Charon, is basically half the size of Pluto, but come on. It seems to me that you’re simply discriminating against a planet because one of its moons has a fat ass. That’s just cruel. There’s no room in science for bullies. Carl Sagan would be ashamed of you. And what does dominating its orbit have to do with anything, anyway? Rhode Island doesn’t dominate its surrounding area. We don’t just rename it Eastern Connecticut or classify it as a dwarf state, do we? Come to think of it, Connecticut doesn’t exactly dominate its neighborhood, either. New York could kick the crap out of both Rhode Island and Connecticut with Long Island tied behind its back. Plus, I spent an inordinate amount of time in grade school memorizing the order of the planets. What a waste of time now. You’ve even ruined my superbly fabulous planetary mnemonic for reciting their sequence. My Vicious Evil Monster Jumped Sally Underneath the Neighbors’ Porch. Get it? Mercury, Venus, Earth, etc. Without Pluto, it just doesn’t make sense anymore. Neighbors’ what? It could be anything. It’s so frustrating. I just don’t know why you did this to Pluto. Is this some kind of anti-American thing? Clyde Tombaugh, who discovered Pluto in 1930, was an American. In fact, he was the only American to ever discover a planet in our solar system. Now we’ve got no one on the scoreboard. I’ve noticed the International Astronomical Union is headquartered in Paris, France. Is this a jealousy thing? Does this have anything to do with the recent lack of success of French cyclists in the Tour de France, not to mention the whole Lance Armstrong thing? There’s no room in science for bigotry. Speaking of which: What the hell is up with the label dwarf planet, anyway? Shouldn’t it be “little person” planet? I’m sure you’ve had plenty of complaints from the vertically challenged over that one. Get with the program, you cheese-eating French xenophobes. And why you decided to pick on Pluto in the first place is beyond me. Pluto, or Hades, as he is known in some circles, is the ruler of the underworld. Not someone to take lightly, and definitely not someone to piss off. Just keep this in mind: Pluto resembles a large asteroid composed of rock and ice. What happens when asteroids get ticked off? They smash into things! I have enough on my plate already. I don’t have time for the President to summon me to the White House in order to meet with his advisors and mastermind a brilliant last-minute strategy to save the earth from a rogue dwarf planet — sorry, I meant a rogue “little person” planet — hell bent on crashing into the Earth and unleashing a new ice age just because you don’t think it deserves to be considered a planet anymore!
Sincerely,
Avery Bartholomew Pendleton
Sovereign owner and Supreme Ruler of Averius Maximus - Right Ascension 14 hours, 45 minutes, and 8.42 seconds and Declination 41 degrees, 11 minutes, and 32.22 seconds.
• • •
Outside, the sun baked Austin. From a distance, the big white house with the prominent columns in front shimmered in the heat. Inside, Maximilian licked himself. He was a French bulldog, so it was all right. They tend to do that. A lot. Max, the sturdy alabaster dog, snuffled along the baseboards, looking for snacks. He didn’t find anything worth eating. Maybe a few things for chewing, but he wasn’t interested in chewing. It was too hot. Eating, maybe. Chewing, too hot. Outside, a noise caught his attention. He leapt up toward the low windowsill and slammed his front paws on the glass with a bang. His flat face pressed against the picture window, leaving a fresh smudge of drool on top of the other smudges of drool that lived on top of the other smudges of drool that defined his window. It was definitely Max’s window, and everyone knew it. The smudges were just his way of signing his work. It was an artist thing.
Outside, a long vehicle pulled up to the curb. What’s that? Max’s stubby tail pricked up, and a low growl reverberated deep from within his stocky chest. Bennett, his elderly master and Avery’s stepfather, although only Max acknowledged his authority, called him into the kitchen. Max obeyed and gave Bennett a curious look with his blocky head cocked to one side, and then immediately ran back to the window and began to bark hysterically.
“What the hell is that damn dog doing now?” Bennett asked his son Kip and sister-in-law Polly, both eating a lunch of pimento cheese sandwiches and Polly’s homemade pickles at the table. The sandwiches were excellent, but Polly’s pickles were rank. Her recipe, handed down from her mother’s mother, landed somewhere in between sickeningly sweet, half-sour, mildly dilled, and completely fermented. They tasted awful, but they packed an alcoholic punch. More than two, and driving was not recommended. Kip tried to inconspicuously hide his pickle in his napkin. Bennett, a retired doctor, rose from the table and headed toward the front door, only to nearly be run over by Avery as he pounded down the main staircase, stumbling most of the way.
“Got it,” Avery yelled as he leapt the last two steps to avoid tripping. “As you were.” He brushed past his stepfather.
“Jesus,” Bennett said as he grabbed the banister for support. “Boy, you’re as useful as a trapdoor on a canoe.” Avery pulled open the front door just as the motley and extremely sleepy members of STRAC-BOM reached the porch. The General, in his tanker uniform, led the way.
“Avery Bartholomew Pendleton, I presume,” the General said as he saluted.
“Never heard of him,” Avery said as he returned a half-hearted salute. “Refer to me as Agent 00Zero.”
“Private Zulu has informed me of your real identity.”
“Never mind, then. Inside, quickly!” Avery frantically waved the camouflage fatigue–wearing men into the house. “The black helicopter traffic has been infrequent lately, but we can’t take any chances.” Max eyed the seven strangers with suspicion as they entered. “Don’t worry, though — I’ve swept the interior for bugs and surveillance devices. Can’t be too careful with the current administration in Washington.”
“Well put,” the General replied.
“Avery,” Bennett asked as he filled his pipe with tobacco, “what the hell is going on?”
“These are my associates. We’ll be embarking on an important scientific journey shortly. Kindly refrain from opening my mail or entering my office while we’re gone. It’ll be booby-trapped.”
“You’re leaving. Why didn’t you say? I’ll help you pack.”
“Good day, sir,” the General said as he extended his hand to Bennett. “How are you this fine morning?”
“Well, the Baptists and the Johnson grass are taking over.” Bennett shook the General’s pudgy hand. “Other than that, I’m pretty fair, I suppose. You are?”
“I’m General X-Ray, the commanding officer of the Southwest Texas Revolutionary Armed Confederate Border Operations Militia. I’m sure you’ve heard of our courageous exploits protecting America from invasion. My men and I will be escorting Avery on a top-secret mission to Mexico. Have no fear for his safety — my men are highly trained professionals.”
Bennett surveyed the troops. “What are you hopping around for?” he asked Private Foxtrot
.
“Sir, got to pee, sir.”
“Down the hall.” Bennett pointed as Private Foxtrot scurried toward the bathroom, closely followed by Fire Team Leaders Alpha and Charlie. “Can I get you or your men anything?”
“I’m so hungry I could eat the butt off a low-flying duck,” Private Tango said.
“Polly, can you wrangle these boys up some sandwiches?”
“Why, I’d be delighted,” the flame-orange-haired Polly replied. “You just give me two shakes of a lamb’s tail.” The portly Aunt Polly wobbled into the kitchen on her rickety high heels, followed quickly by the sound of a plate shattering. “Crabapples! Pardon my French, gentlemen,” she called out.
“Second one today.” Bennett rubbed his head before lighting his pipe. “General, you and your men make yourselves at home.”
“Let me collect my things, and we’ll be off,” Avery said as he pounded back up the stairs toward his room, turned office, turned laboratory, turned junk bin.
“Lovely residence,” the General said as he paced around the first floor of the house. Noticing an oil painting of Stephen F. Austin hanging on the wall, he snapped to attention and saluted. Max sniffed the General’s leg before lifting his own and marking him with a quick squirt. “What the…”
“Max!” Bennett yelled before grabbing the dog by the scruff of his neck and shuffling him into the kitchen. Bennett returned with a roll of paper towels. The General patted his leggings dry. A few minutes later, the entire group crowded into the kitchen. Polly scampered to place food on the table for the group. Her rear end looked like two bobcats fighting in a flour sack as she bounced around the kitchen. The men of STRAC-BOM inhaled Polly’s sandwiches. Max made a killing off scraps that fell to the floor. Most of the militia avoided the pickles, the exception being Private Zulu, who polished off three before his head began to spin.
“These are great!” the private exclaimed before hiccupping.
“You might want to take it easy on those,” Kip whispered to the visibly swaying private, who had started on another one. “And for God’s sake, don’t blow on an open flame.”
A few minutes later, Avery and the militia ambled toward the school bus with Avery’s gear. Private Tango helped Private Zulu, who was weaving back and forth while singing a Willy Nelson song that he clearly didn’t know the lyrics to.
“Boy couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket.” The General crumpled up a parking ticket stuck under the buses’ windshield wiper. “We’re not anywhere near that goldang fire hydrant.” He tossed the ticket into the gutter. “Mount up, boys — we ride!”
“We’re missing a man,” Avery said. “Need to pick him up on the way.”
“Easy enough.” The General fired up the bus. Bennett, Kip, and Polly watched the men from the front porch as they piled into the long vehicle.
“What a strange group of men,” Polly said. Bennett draped his long arm over Polly’s shoulders.
“I’ve been to two World Fairs and a Mexican donkey show, and I’ve never seen anything like it,” Bennett said.
“Do you think we’ll ever see Avery again?” Polly asked as she clung to Bennett’s arm.
“If you can guarantee it, I’ll give you fifty bucks,” deadpanned Bennett. Kip laughed. Polly slapped Bennett’s hand. Max belched and then licked himself.
• • •
It was dark, and a dog was barking down the block. But for “The Ferryman,” it always was like that. El Barquero cut the power to the house and went to work on the alarm system. It didn’t take him long. He’d done it before, many times before. The back door was deadbolted. He went to a window instead. Using one of his curved knives, he pried it open and slipped through. Inside, he surveyed the room. Modest and unpretentious, it was nothing special. That was like Cesar. Barquero had known him for years. Years ago, Cesar Beltrán had been under his command in the Mexican Army’s elite Special Forces Airmobile Group. Colonel Beltrán now led Barquero’s old unit. Barquero started up the stairs. He was quiet, silent as he mounted the steps.
“Freeze. Or I’ll shoot,” a confident voice called from the top of the landing.
“It’s me,” Barquero whispered.
“Who?”
“Your friend.”
“How do I know? Who are you?”
“Look,” Barquero said as he dropped his scythe. “It’s me. Cesar, you remember me, don’t you?”
“My God. What happened to you?” Cesar asked as he lowered his pistol and came down the dark stairway.
“I need your help.”
“My help?”
“Help. Cesar, I need your help.” The big man went to his knees and picked up his curved knife.
“Okay,” Cesar said as he walked cautiously past the man and toward the bar, turning on the lights on the way. “But keep quiet. Maria and the kids are asleep.” Cesar still held his pistol. He set it down and poured two glasses of mescal. “Drink, my friend.”
“To our friends, especially the ones not with us anymore.” Barquero downed the glass of warm liquid. Cesar joined him.
“You’re a goddamn ghost, back from the grave.”
“Ghost? No, but from the grave, yes.”
“What happened? The army looked for you. I looked for you!” Cesar’s voice rose.
“Quiet,” Barquero implored.
“You’re right.” Cesar looked at the staircase. “Now, what happened to you?”
“I got lost.”
“Bullshit!” Cesar yelled, and then lowered his voice. “Dogs get lost. You abandoned us. You abandoned your duty.”
“I know,” Barquero replied. His eyes were full of rage and sorrow at the same time. “I had to…”
“Had to what?”
“Leave…I had to leave.” Barquero sat down on the couch. He pulled out a silenced pistol from his jacket and placed it on an end table. “It was Rosalina. She was…”
“I know.”
“She was killed.” Barquero closed his eyes. “And the baby, too.”
“Goddammit, I know.” Cesar sat down on the couch next to his friend. He placed the bottle on the wooden coffee table. “We went to the funeral. We all did. All your men went. Why weren’t you there?”
“I don’t know,” Barquero said as he picked up his gun and lowered the hammer. “I went out to…went out to find out who did it.”
“We could have helped.”
“The army? The police? That’s bullshit, Cesar. You know that.”
“Did you find them?”
“No!”
“Quiet, please,” Cesar said as he put his finger to his mouth. “Don’t wake Maria.” Cesar scowled, then smiled. “Okay, wake Maria — she always loved you, but Jesus, not the kids.” The two men smiled, then drank. “We had orders to find you. I still have orders to find you. There are consequences for deserters.” Cesar set his glass down. “You don’t just leave the army.”
“You can if the money is right.” Barquero set his glass down also. Cesar refilled them both.
“So you left for the money?”
“I didn’t know what to do. Rosalina…”
“You’re a criminal now.”
“I’m worse than a criminal.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ve done some bad things. Bad things…worked for some bad people.”
“So what the hell do you want me to do for you? Feel sorry for you? You quit. You left. You knew what we were facing. The same damn thing we’re facing now. We’re outgunned, outmanned, and out-financed, but you quit…and for the money?” Cesar downed his drink.
“I left because of Rosalina and the baby.”
“Sure, I know, but my men…your men…they’re getting killed, and for what? I’m sorry, but you’re not the only one who lost someone. We’re fighting a battle we can’t win. Too much money, too many cartels…but you just quit. So I ask you again, should I feel sorry for you?”
“No, Cesar.”
“Then what do you want? You want me to a
rrest you? I should. It’s my duty. You’re a wanted man. Coming here, you’re placing my family in jeopardy. I could be arrested for harboring a fugitive from the military.”
“I’ll leave.” Barquero picked up his pistol.
“No!” Cesar said as he stood and grabbed Barquero by the throat. Barquero reached up, twisted his hand, and spun Cesar around and threw him down to the floor. He looked toward the stairs and listened to see if anyone was awakened. Nothing.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Cesar,” Barquero whispered. “I only want some information.”
“About what?” Cesar grimaced with his face pinned to the floor. Barquero let him go and pulled him to his feet.
“The Padre. I need to know about the Padre.”
“What do you want to know? That he’s untouchable? That he’s paying off everyone from the janitors to the politicians?” Cesar looked at him. “Trust me — the army has been after him for years. I got close once. I lost almost all of my men. The Padre? What do you want with him?”
“I know him, and I have a debt to settle before he settles it with me first. What I want to know is where he is. Where he’s moving and what he’s moving. Save your men, Cesar. I can get him. I’ll get him for you. I just need to know where to look. Please tell me.” Barquero looked his old friend in the eyes. “I’ll make this right.”
“After all these years thinking you were dead, you show up, and now you want me to send you off to make sure it happens? He’ll kill you. No one man can stop him. The military, the police, the Americans, no one can touch him, he owns everyone. Not to mention, he doesn’t just kill people — he kills everyone they know.”
“I know that.”
“Did you know El Carnicero?”
“I knew of him. They caught him.”
“He’s out.”
“Out? How?”
“Prison riot, staged by the cartels. Someone smuggled him out. The government won’t say, but the word is that the Padre bought his way out. The press wasn’t even allowed to mention his escape. It might look bad for the government.” Cesar poured again, and the men drank. After a long, silent pause, Cesar spoke. “You can help me get him?”
Trail of the Chupacabra: An Avery Bartholomew Pendleton Misadventure (The Chupacabra Trilogy - Book 2) Page 12